typewriters

We all say it’s in the past
when we’re still cleaning discolored floors with old towels
we don’t know the difference between damp and soaked so we relive repressed memories
asking ourselves if we simply forgot wrong
and we walk in closed spaces so we never have to see our own reflections
and we claw at our own skin as though it will take out the boiled blood that circulates inside of us
and we disconnect and disassociate and dismember our own beings
so that when emotions run high we will be too filled with self delusion to actually feel them
and i know you want me to cry
but i don’t know how to do that without choking myself with the tie around his neck
but i swear I’ve been begging for the easiest form of mercy
in a church i know I’ll never find
but salvation is still my favorite concept
the one i keep swallowing when my skin starts to crawl
and a quote by Dante Alighieri says
“The path to paradise begins in hell”
and i hope for the sake of those whose eyelids were sliced off
and whose mouths were pried open
that the things we wish we could forget
aren’t forever stuck in our throats, in the pits of our stomachs, under bluish fingernails
because wooden stairways remind me of dark alleys
and kitchen sinks remind me of food coloring that dripped from the inside out
and pajamas make me feel like tearing up my favorite books
because pictures don’t do pain any justice
and smiles elaborate broader tales of truths we keep hidden
and now i collect typewriters
because it’s the only thing i never saw.